Greeted by Toast
by Outakurebecca
Summary: Sherlock returns to 221B. 300% more serious than the title.
1. Chapter 1

**Based on a rp with my wonderful sister/writer PennyStarling17. In addition to being a brilliant Sherlock, she also did the formatting and beta-ing. Check her stories out if you want to feel emotional pain in the best kind of way! On to the Johnlock...**

The tea kettle whistled shrilly in the kitchen of 221B. John turned from the frosty window and slowly got up to attend to the annoying thing. After pouring a steaming mug of chamomile, he returned to the window. He spent a lot of his spare time by that window overlooking Baker St. He supposed the neighbors might think he was a bit off, but he was past caring. It gave him faint smiles now and then to see the things people would do when they thought no one was watching. He had noticed a few returning odd balls over the years. John sighed. No matter how much time he spent by the window, he never caught a glimpse the one person he hoped to see.

On the other side of London, Sherlock stood alone, frowning to himself. He adjusted his coat and hailed a cab. Perhaps he should have been happy, but in reality, he was just tired.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked as he got in.

"221 Baker St." The man nodded and the cab began to move.

Pale eyes watched the cars moving with little care. Perhaps he should have waited or perhaps-

Excuses, excuses, Sherlock, he scolded himself. It's all ready been three years, you've kept him waiting long enough.

Should he give up? John questioned as he watched the street. Mrs. Hudson sometimes told him so. He chuckled to himself and sipped his tea. As if he could.

"Where are you coming from?" The question startled Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"France," was the terse reply.

"Were you gone long? You seem rather anxious to get there."

There was no reply, but a wry smile, one that said 'you have no idea.'

A rap on the flat door startled John from his thoughts. He crossed the small sitting room, feeling a slight pang in his heart when he passed the wall that was once decorated with yellow paint and bullet holes.

"John, it's about time you opened up!" Mrs. Hudson shoved passed him into the flat. She carried a tray of super items and a few handsomely decorated treats that were leftover from Christmas.

John nibbled at his food. No matter how delicious Mrs. Hudson's cooking was, it was one of those days that he didn't have an appetite. His most recent girlfriend had broken up with him a month or so previous and he was still recovering.

"Well here you are, mate." The cab came to a stop and Sherlock gave the cabbie some money before stepping out.

He cleared his throat as he stopped at the door. Should he go in? He knew, logically, that he would reopen old wounds and he wasn't sure if John was still dating that Morstan woman.

His breathing hitched as he thought about the day he was told of their relationship. Well, at least John was happy, if he was still dating her.

With a shaky breath, Sherlock finally stepped inside of 221 Baker St. His eyes moved towards the stairs.

After shutting the door, he walked up the steps and paused in front of 221B's door.

He raised his hand to knock.

Mrs. Hudson was halfway through chiding John for letting Mary go so easily when another knock echoed through the flat. John looked up from his plate, swallowing his mouthful of toast.

"Hold on," he said to Mrs. Hudson. "If you're here, who's at the door?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged, but her eyes reflected the hope in John's.

'Maybe he's out,' Sherlock thought uneasily as the door remained unanswered. 'Maybe he's at Mary's house or he's off visiting Harry.'

He knocked again.

There was a clatter of chairs and the two rushed to get the door in unison. John got there first, fumbling with the door awkwardly before finally wrenching it open.

Sherlock took a step back, intending to leave, when the door was forcefully pulled open, John's eyes locking with his.

"John."

"Sherlock, you git," John said. He didn't know if he would rather hug him or punch him.

Unsure what he should say, Sherlock shifted, his left hand opening and closing. It still ached from when Moran's knife had stabbed into it, many months ago. The scar was sensitive to the cold, making Sherlock unable to hold his hand still.

John wasn't much good at the science of deduction, but he had learned what he knew from the best. He reached out to grasp Sherlock's twitching hand. It was shivering and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the flat. John smiled up at Sherlock, pulling him into the sitting room and out of the dreary winter weather. John was sure he would never think of anything as dreary ever again.

Slightly startled by John's move, Sherlock let himself be led inside the flat. Was he supposed to say something? Was he supposed to try and explain where he had been? His mind was faltering; too tired from the days he had spent awake trying to return to London- to John and 221B. The warmth from the flat made him shiver, his body suddenly remembering how cold it was.

"Take off your coat when you come into your own house," John instructed with a shaky voice. "It's okay now. It's okay."

His house? Did john really still consider it his? Shaky fingers rose to undo his coat as his left hand tightened on John's.

He didn't want to let go.

John's fingers tightened in response. His eyes itched. No, he wasn't going to cry. Not this John Watson. He rubbed his eye with his right hand to get that dust spec or small planet or whatever it was out. Mrs. Hudson had both hands over her mouth with silent streams running down her cheeks.

Sherlock frowned as he watched Mrs. Hudson cry and John rub his eye.

"Why are you upset?" he asked after finally letting go of John's hand to take off his coat.

"Is it because," he paused, tired eyes looking John over, trying to come up with a reasonable cause. Only one came to his tired mind. "Is it because I'm back? Do you want me to leave?"

He was used to people wanting him to leave. He was used to people not liking him. So why did the thought of John hating him hurt so much?

John grinned and Mrs. Hudson choked out a weak laugh. For all of his knowledge, Sherlock really could be thick sometimes.

"Don't be stupid," John said with a hint of their old banter. "We've been waiting for you to come back ever since Mycroft leaked that you were still alive."

Sherlock started. "He knew? When did he figure it out?"

"It was a joint effort, really," John said, polishing an invisible badge on the front of his jumper.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her teary eyes. "Goodness!" she exclaimed in some frivolous realization. "We need more toast!" And with that, she hurried down to her flat to collect additional supper items.

Sherlock stared in the direction Mrs. Hudson disappeared for a moment and silently wished that she would come back. He wasn't sure what he should say to John. Turning, he walked to the mantle and touched his skull.

"You kept it," he murmured.

John made his 'I suppose you would notice that, wouldn't you?' face. "I kept a lot of things that you left. I cleaned up the rancid experiment in the bath tub, though."

Sherlock let out a weak laugh. "Suppose it wouldn't still be good, would it?"

John grinned. He glanced out the window and back at Sherlock again, his somber air returning.

"Don't ever make me do that again," he said sternly, fixing Sherlock with another look. "In fact," he continued, crossing the small room and putting his arms around Sherlock in a gentle hug. "Don't leave anything behind. Science experiments... or me."

Sherlock stood stiffly in John's embrace. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around him and leant against him.

"I'm... sorry John. I could see no other way to..." he hesitated.

"It's alright," John filled the silence. "As long as you're back. But you do have a /lot/ of explaining to do."

Sherlock flexed his hand again, phantom pain throbbing as he nodded. He fixed a tired stare on John.

"Do you know why I did it?"

"I've had a lot of time to theorize," John admitted. "At the very least it had something to do with Moriarty. That's how we knew you weren't dead, even after you'd been... gone a while. Moriarty-like crimes became less and less common." John hesitated, wondering how much he should say. "It's still a mystery why you had to do it... like /that/."

Sherlock walked until he stood in front of the window and looked down onto Baker Street.

"He would have killed you. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade; you- you all had someone about to take you out, unless I..."

He trailed off, a shudder raking his body.

John blinked in shock. "I had no idea." It pained him to see the detective like this, even if was thankful to see him at all. For three years he had been through fazes of feeling shock, regret, and betrayal over Sherlock's disappearance. He shook his head in disbelief. To think the whole thing had been to save him. To save everyone he cared about.

"That was the point. Moriarty wanted the world to think I was a fraud. Beaten and with nowhere else to go, I had to die and I had to make you believe I was dead and never coming back. Because the world would believe it if you did." Sherlock shrugged. "So I killed myself."

Sherlock's shoulders tightened, left hand twitching. The things he had gone through these last three years had been torture. His scars ached and his head hurt, emotions spilling out from his carefully crafted mask.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered, left hand closing. "I truly am."

"That doesn't make any sense!" John walked back and forth, suddenly angry. "I saw you, I-I saw you dead. I- you didn't have a pulse. They took you away, they buried you!" John looked up, a crease in his brow. "You survived that, you tricked the world, you sacrificed all that for us... and you're... sorry?"

Sherlock spun around to face him, eyes blazing. "Yes, John. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to put you through that. I'm sorry you had to bury me. I'm sorry you had to deal with the world thinking I was a fraud. I'm sorry, but do you have any idea what I had to go through to make sure they wouldn't come after you, after any of you?! Do you have any idea of the HELL I WENT THROUGH TO KEEP YOU SAFE?!"

John stepped back with an ache in his chest.

Sherlock slumped back, suddenly drained, hand twitching again. "I went through so much," he whispered. "So much. I just wanted to come home."

The tears (there was no use denying it, that's what they were) dripped down his face. He would have wiped them away with the sleeve of his ugly jumper (there was no denying /that/ either), but he had more important things to attend to.

"Sherlock," his voice cracked. "Your hand. Let me see your hand."

Sherlock looked at his friend, eyes tired and haunted. Slowly, he offered his hand.

"I can't play the violin anymore," he confided in a shaky whisper. "There was too much nerve damage; and it went too long untreated."

His entire body hurt with the loss he felt for his friend. The violin- Sherlock had played so well. It had been one of the only things he truly enjoyed besides solving cases.

John took the shaking hand in his own, examining it carefully. When he finished, he looked up at the weary detective.

"There's a lot of damage, but not all of it is permanent. We can fix it," John smiled. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

Sherlock let out a shaky laugh, his fingers gripping John's. It felt good to have a hand to hold again.

After the years he spent in solitude, it felt good to not be alone.

The door to the flat burst open loudly, causing both men to flinch. It was Mrs. Hudson returning from her quest. "My, my, I've brought more toast, so much toast. ALL the toast!" She averted her eyes from the crispy bread slices and saw the two with their hands intertwined. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything." She grinned mischievously.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to pull his hand away from John's.

"Nope," John looked pointedly at Sherlock. "You're not allowed to let go; doctor's orders."

"John, I'm fine," Sherlock stated, though he quietly said to himself, "I've gone much longer without food."

Mrs. Hudson tut-tutted them and pushed them both to the dinner table. John made a fool of himself by insisting on eating with his left hand so he could continue to grasp Sherlock's injured one. The soup was a disaster and he ended up only eating toast. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson had made enough to feed a micro country.

Sherlock ate very little (and the little he did eat, he had trouble keeping down. As previously stated, it had been a very long time since he had last ate.) and continued holding John's hand.

"Alright! That's enough of that!" Mrs. Hudson stood up briskly and began putting things away. She went as far as to snatch a half-eaten piece of bread from John's mouth when clearing away the dishes.

"What are you...?" John sputtered in disbelief.

"Oh shush," Mrs. Hudson tapped him on the nose with a cinnamon-scented fingertip. "I'll be out of your hair soon enough."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. Why did she want to leave so suddenly?

"You really don't have to-" John tried in vain to slow her down.

"Oh, stop it," Mrs. Hudson waved him away. "I'm already done. Farewell!" She winked, gathered the basket of dishes, and showed herself out.

Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson leave with a tired eye. He turned to John, who was still holding his hand.

John was just as befuddled as Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson could be a really oddity sometimes. He turned to Sherlock.

"I suppose you're exhausted," John said. "I'll go put some sheets on your bed."

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand momentarily before he reluctantly released him.

That's right, being a housewife required both hands.

Time passed quickly, though Sherlock did not sleep. By 2 in the morning, he could no longer lie in his bed and came out into the living room.

John was staring glumly his laptop, the bags under his eyes amplified by the iridescent screen. He had spent the night writing an entry announcing Sherlock's return and the morning up till then agonizing on if he should post it.

Mind slow from the days without sleep, Sherlock tripped over the coffee table and landed on his back with a thud.

"Oh my god, Sherlock!" John's shout was partially out of concern from his friend and partially from the surprise of said friend sneaking up on him. He rushed over and nearly tripped on the rug himself.

"'m fine, John," said a winded Sherlock. He winced. "I think," he murmured.

John reached out a hand to help him up. Sherlock pursed his lips and accepted his hand standing up and staggering into John.

He chuckled, catching Sherlock as best he could.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock tried to move away from John.

John yawned and gripped the front of Sherlock's shirt tighter. He amazed himself at how tired he had let himself become. He leaned closer to the detective instinctively.

Sherlock started, surprised and wary. "John, what are you doing?"

"Hmm, what?" John said sleepily. His eye lids were oh so heavy...

"John?"

It was too late, John was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up with wet eyes. He had thought that his war-flashback dreams had been torturous, but he couldn't stand the ones where Sherlock came back. Nothing crushed his spirit more than getting what he wanted, only to realize it wasn't his.

"Finally awake, John?"

His head snapped to the side. It wasn't possible- but it had been more realistic than the other dreams, much less kissing, so maybe it had happened after all?

His mouth moved soundlessly as his brain processed the idea.

Sherlock frowned. "Are you alright, John?"

"A bit alright, yeah," he replied. He propped himself on his elbows and shook his head briefly to clear any lasting fog from his vision.

Sherlock observed him with narrowed eyes, silently taking in the tiredness that lingered on his face.

"Hmm..." was his reply.

"Hold on," John said, now mostly alert. "Why am I in your bed?!"

"You fell asleep against my chest and the sofa hurts your back. My room was closer."

Against his... Ah, he remembered now.

"And I suppose you refused to sleep again?"

"I wasn't tired," he lied.

"Rubbish," said John.

Sherlock tipped his head back and closed his eyes, ignoring the comment.

"Well, I'll make breakfast," John announced. He threw the sheets off himself. "I would tell you to use the bed, but I don't think it would do much good."

Sherlock didn't respond, though his lips did curl up in a smile when John's footsteps left the room.

He had known Sherlock was alive for some time, but he had been doubtful on if he would return. Now that he had, John couldn't help but walk lighter and smile a little as he bustled around the flat's kitchen. Blast, they were out of bread.

Slowly standing, Sherlock absently wandered out of his room and made his way to collapse on the sofa.

John set two plates of eggs on the coffee table and made a second trip for the mugs of tea. He figured Sherlock wouldn't want either, but he gave it to him anyway.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and listened to the sounds of John puttering about.

"Will you be taking cases right away?" John asked, 85% sure Sherlock was awake, 45% sure he was present in the conversation. "Or will you lay low for the time being? I image Greg will give you all kinds of drama eventually." He picked up his own plate and perched in his favorite chair.

"If Lestrade brings me a case, I'll consider it," was Sherlock's murmured reply.

"I brought you food, will you consider it?"

"The food or a case?"

"Food first."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly as he pretended to consider the food before he sighed and sat up, reaching for his plate.

John smiled, but tried to hide it with another bite of eggs.

Sherlock hummed as he eat his food. He'd never admit it, but he had missed John's cooking.

John finished his plate and replaced it with his tea, calmly sipping at it, enjoying the silence of two, rather than the kind that had been forced on him when he was alone.

Picking up his now empty plate, Sherlock reached to place it back on the table, only for his hand to suddenly spasm, causing him to drop the plate.

John got to his feet and clasped Sherlock's hand, ignoring the dish. It was still in one piece, thanks to the carpeting.

Wincing at the sudden pain coursing through his hand and wrist, Sherlock glanced up at John.

"I'm sorry, I'd forgotten," John sputtered. "Forget the cases, let's get you in to the clinic and I'll get you a brace, use some equipment to see what kind of nerve damage.." He trailed off into medical rambling.

"John I told you, it's gone too long untreated. Going to the clinic won't help anything."

"Excuse me, but who's the doctor here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have had my hand checked before, John. The infection was too bad not to."

Infection? Christ, it just got worse and worse. "I told you it could heal enough to play the violin. That's a standing promise."

"But-" Sherlock started, brows furled slightly.

"I'm going to get dressed, then we'll be off," John gave his hand a light pat and escaped to his own room before he could hear any protest.

Sherlock sighed and threw himself dramatically back onto the sofa, his right arm covering his face.

He was still in that position when John returned and threw his coat at him. "Last time I brushed up on my medical studies, there was no link between hand injuries and the inability to walk. Let's get going."

"I don't want to," he snapped petulantly.

This was the result of pushing his luck with the food and the sleep, John thought. "I would bring the clinic to you, if I could, but as it is there's not much I can do here."

Sherlock made a muffled sound and continued to lay prone on the couch.

John paused. "Why are home remedies acceptable when professional help isn't?"

"I went to a clinic to get my hand checked out," he muttered.

"If it was in a third world country, it doesn't count."

"It was in France."

"Ah. That counts."

"As a third world country?"

"They legalized gay marriage, of course they're not a third world country."

"Then I don't need to go to the clinic."

"Foiled by logic," John cursed. He hung up his coat, leaving Sherlock's draped across the back of the couch where he had pitched it. "The offer is always there, though. I'll see what else I can do here, in the meantime."

"If you want," he muttered, keeping his right arm over his face as offered his injured hand.

John picked it up and examined it for the umpteenth time. He nodded to himself after a moment and bent to place a quick peck of his lips to one knuckle, then went to gather supplies from the home medicine cabinet.

Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile at the feel of John's kiss.

"I'd say it's motor nerves, judging by the spasms," John called from the other room. "If you won't in for surgery and I'm not comfortable with giving acupuncture, we'll try physical therapy."

Sherlock hummed, indicating he was listening and waited for John to continue.

John returned with some over the counter pain medication and a glass of water.

Sherlock didn't look up as John returned, absently thinking that he should start a new experiment to see if he could replicate the murdered body he had seen in Greece. The way his neck and right leg had been twisted...

"Sherlock?" John leaned on the arm of the chair closest to the head of Sherlock's couch.

"Hmm?"

"Thanks. For coming back."

Slowly moving his arm, Sherlock looked up at John. He frowned. "You... thought I wouldn't?"

"There were days," John admitted.

Sherlock's lips twisted and he looked away, turning to face the back of the couch.

"To have hope, you have to acknowledge the chance of failure," John explained. He cast his eyes to the ground. "Otherwise it's blind faith. I was never one for that."

"Sentiment," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

He cursed himself a fool for thinking that John...

"Hey, you stop that," John marginally raised his voice.

"Stop what?" Sherlock demanded, turning to lay on his back again.

"Putting up walls," John said. He remembered Sherlock being absent for days even when he never left the flat.

Sherlock stared at him blankly. "Putting up walls?" he asked, confusion in his voice.

"You assume things and- no, it's fine," John set down the water glass and pill bottle and slumped down to the floor.

After a moment of watching John, Sherlock stated, "you're upset."

"Yes," said John. He rubbed his face with his palms before leaning his head back against the arm chair.

Sitting up, Sherlock leaned toward him, worry flickering on his face. He opened and closed his mouth, at loss for what he should say.

Suddenly, Sherlock was up and out the door of 221B.

"Wait, what-" John looked up in time to see the door close behind him. "He left his coat..."

Less than five minutes later, Sherlock was back, racing up the steps and charging into the flat.

He quickly tossed a jug of milk to John, who deftly caught it.

"What's this?" he asked.

"I'm sorry I always forget to get the milk, John," Sherlock said, earnestly, sitting back down on the couch.

John looked from the jug in his hands to Sherlock and back. The corner of his mouth twitched when their eyes met again. "I bloody well hope you're sorry. It's a serious offense to forget the groceries."

"I always remember the other stuff," Sherlock pointed out.

"The morgue isn't a grocery store, Sherlock." A slight laugh escaped him. "It's strange, but seeing a head in the fridge might actually cheer me up nowadays."

Sherlock perked up slightly. "I can go get one," he offered.

"That's alright," John said quickly. "It can wait. Really."

He shrugged and leaned back. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure," John assured him. He got up to put the milk in the fridge instead.

Sherlock looked down and smiled to himself.

* * *

After a lazy day in the flat, due to Sherlock refusing to leave after the milk adventure, John pulled nearly all the blankets of his bed and deposited them on the coffee table in preparation to watch a movie in absolute comfort.

Sherlock watched the preparations with an air of detachment about him. When John popped a dvd in, he finally asked, "What are we watching?"

"Limitless," John answered. "Seen it before?"

Sherlock shook his head and asked in exasperation, "It's not going to be like the Bond marathon, is it?"

"It's almost as long, almost four hours, but no, it's _much_ different from Bond."

"Ok," Sherlock said hesitantly, scooting over to provide John with a place to sit.

Once he got the movie up and running, John took the offered seat and dumped the heap of blankets atop the both of them.

"We're going to get hot under all of these, John," Sherlock's muffled voice fought through the layers of blankets.

John pushed aside the top layer of blankets so they could both breathe. "Better?" he asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded.

The glow of the screen was the only light, even if it had been day time there were far too many clouds for it to be of use. The flash forward lead played on the movie, and though John had seen the first half of the film before, he had fallen asleep and wanted to find out the ending.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as the movie started and opened his mouth to complain.

John looked at him expectantly.

Looking at the expectant look on John's face made Sherlock shut his mouth and settle back to watch the movie, a sulky look briefly flirting across his face.

"I've seen the first half, so you won't ruin it."

Sherlock shook his head and muttered, "It's a good movie so far," through clenched teeth.

He wasn't going to ruin this movie night.

John snickered internally at Sherlock's obvious efforts to hold back on commentary. He let it stretch until he thought it would be unhealthy to continue. "Seeing any parallels between him and yourself yet?" he provoked the detective.

Sherlock looked slightly insulted. "I didn't take drugs to become a genius!"

"Of course not, you were always brilliant," John said honestly.

Sherlock blinked then glanced down.

"Thank you," he muttered.

"Sorry, could you say that a little louder?" John teased. He was certain that was the first time Sherlock had ever said such a thing.

The glare Sherlock shot him spoke volumes. "I said, 'thank you."'

The heavy volumes hit John in the face, but he smiled right through it. It was worth it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath.

John shifted closer to Sherlock involuntarily where the protagonist's former love came on screen. She looked awful. He tried to comfort her, but there wasn't much he could do. John grimaced.

Casting a glance at John's frowning face, Sherlock asked, "What?"

"Hm?" John's eyes flicked up for a second then back to the screen. "It's... I guess I'm relating to the protagonist now."

"Why?"

"I get how he might... might feel... helpless."

"I-" Sherlock frowned and looked at John in confusion.

"I... don't want to talk about it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," John said after a moment. He leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder instead. Maybe a shred of helpfulness would defuse into his flatmate that way.

Sherlock nodded slightly and leaned against John.

John sighed in content. It wasn't a happy movie, but the flat was peaceful and his toes were warm.

Sherlock frowned as he watched the disorienting scene. The colors of the street were swirling quickly and he looked away, trying to avoid the building headache.

"You alright?" John asked, nudging him with his knee under the blankets.

He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and burrowed deeper into the pile of blankets, still avoiding looking at the screen.

John shrugged. He was probably just bored. However, now that he was situated higher than Sherlock, it was possible to nestle his head in the crook of his shoulder. Which he did.

Sherlock glanced up at John briefly before shrugging and moving closer to him. (he would, of course, never admit to the fact he was snuggling.)

John's pulse made an embarrassing jolt when he realized what situation he was in with his newly returned flat mate. He quickly told himself it was perfectly normal for friends to do something of the like. On the other hand, Sherlock wasn't the prime example of 'perfectly normal'.

Moving without thinking, Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist and shifted slightly, more or less lying down, his head resting on John's stomach.

The movie played on, Sherlock being a distraction and John twirling a dark curl absentmindedly.

A small smile found it's way onto Sherlock's lips as he felt John playing with his hair.

John was quite pleased with the arrangement on the couch, but he had no idea what to do with his other hand. It was currently crushed under the blankets that were under Sherlock. Saving it from restricted blood flow would make it a refugee, was it acceptable to rest it on Sherlock's stomach? That would put it dangerously close to Sherlock's hand... Blast, this shouldn't be such a dilemma.

Squirming slightly at the feeling of John's hand trapped under his side, Sherlock twisted and allowed John to pull it free.

Well, that was one decision that was no longer his to make. John rescued his hand, gave it a shake to get the circulation going again, and then floundered for a bit.

Sherlock reached out and grabbed his flat mate's free hand, placed it on his stomach, turned slightly, and continued to watch the movie.

Well, thought John, problem solved.

John squirmed at the new scene. "If it saves his life...I suppose?" he said hesitantly. He had long become desensitized to blood, but not... cannibalism.

Sherlock shook his head and muttered under his breath.

"If I ever, _ever_ try to do that, please stop me," said John.

"If you ever get so addicted to drugs that you are willing to drink the blood of a mobster, I will lock you in a panic room and force you to detox."

John tilted his head back into the couch and laughed. "That's so practical of you," he chuckled, "thanks."

Sherlock quirked his lips into a smile and curled closer to him.

John could sense the movie winding down, time wise at least, but he didn't want it to end. Would Sherlock go back to being distant?

"Why did he start dating her again?" Sherlock asked, glancing up at John.

"They've been through so much together," said John. "Have a lot in common, I mean. No, actually... I don't know. Why does anyone fall in love?" He concentrated very hard on the credits.

Sherlock pursed his lips and rolled over slightly to lay on his back. He hesitantly asked, "Sentiment?"

"Yeah." John rolled his head to one side and back as if he had a crick in his neck, even though there wasn't. "A _lot_ of sentiment." He pondering something momentarily, his brows scrunched together.

"What?"

"Hm? Oh," John looked down at the Sherlock in his lap. "It's, well, this will sound watery at best, but, sometimes love isn't as thought out as 'sentiment' sounds. It can be a glance or an unusual gesture, the feeling that being near them is the best decision you've made all day."

Sherlock's eyes flitted away from John as he asked hesitantly, with a bit of hope in his voice, "Like spraying 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' all over London?"

John gulped and reminded himself that a lot of people had done that as well, it wasn't certain that it was him Sherlock was referring too. "You noticed, huh?"

His grip on Sherlock's hand tightened unconsciously.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "It was all over the city. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'. 'Don't believe the lies'. 'Moriarty was real'. 'Richard Brook was fake'." He smirked. "They were impossible to miss, especially the one on the front of Scotland Yard."

"Molly and I made a day of it," John recollected. "A fortune in spray paint. Glad it helped, you know? Guide you home." He put a hand over his face. "Good god I sound like a sap."

"It was... good for me to see it." He looked down and tightened his grip on John's hand. "I was-" he hesitated and glance up, suddenly uncertain.

"You were-?" John's eyes urged him on.

He sighed. "I was... very low. I was on Moran's- Moriarty's second-in-command- trail and-" he looked away and muttered, "It was hard. Before you, I was use to being alone. And then you," he made a gesture with his hand. "came into my life and it was... hard being alone."

"You're not alone anymore," John reminded him quietly. He was touched by the truth in Sherlock's tone. "And don't you ever take that brilliance of yours away again, alright?"

Sherlock smirked and responded, "Yes, Captain."

"Good." A smile surfaced on John's face. "My life was horribly dull before you. Just being near y-" Shit. He'd said too much.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I like being near you too, John," he said in his 'obvious' voice.

John stewed on what he'd almost said and hoped Sherlock didn't connect it to what he'd said earlier about love. _being near them is the best decision you've made all day._

But of course he did.

"About what you said earlier," Sherlock began, looking up at him.

"Bollocks."

Sherlock leaned away slightly. "John?" he asked, hesitation in his voice.

"Yes Sherlock?" he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew Sherlock would figure out his feeling eventually, but to think that he had practically handed the evidence over on a platter was... frustrating.

Doubt gnawed at Sherlock's previous confidence. He rolled off the couch and quickly stood. "Never mind," he muttered, turning and all but running to his room, slamming and locking the door behind him.

John got up from the couch and tripped over the mess of blankets at his feet. He nicked the coffee table with his arm on the way down and made quite a racket.

Pressing his back against his door, Sherlock let out a shaky breath. "Idiot!" he cursed, angry at himself for almost telling John that he-

No. No. He wasn't going to think about it.

John swore under his breath. He was in a mess, letting himself fall apart like this. And it wasn't going to get any better until he told Sherlock outright why- but was his running off a rejection already?

Sherlock angrily ran his fingers through his head and slid down the door. He knocked his head against the door. "Dammit," he muttered. He had ruined everything.

John untangle himself and stood, determination in his features. No. He was stronger than a love-struck school girl with her heart all a-flutter. He was going to sort this out, for better or- shit. Sherlock was his best friend.

He marched up the short staircase to Sherlock's room, eyes practically closed for fear that he would turn right around and retreat if he saw it. He knocked loudly before he had the chance to do any such cowardly thing.

"Go away!" Sherlock snapped, glaring at his clenched fists, refusing to acknowledge the fact that his sight was blurring.

"Sherlock!" John yelled through the door. "I'm- I'm sorry you don't," he took a breath, "reciprocate."

Sherlock could barely hear him over the thoughts roaring in his head. "Don't rub it in, John," he muttered, putting his face into his hands. "Just leave me alone!"

"Fine!" John shouted. "Fine." It hurt. "Just know, you're my best mate. You're my best mate and I don't want this to come between us." Why did it hurt so much? His hands were in fists at his sides. Not in anger at anyone, just his own stupidity.

"It won't, John,' Sherlock said, voice devoid of emotion.

Why had he ever convinced himself that John could actually lo-

No. He wasn't going to go there.

John told himself to walk away. To flee before he made anything worse. He groaned in frustration. It had all been going so well. Good job, Dr. Watson.

"I'll be turning in early, then. We can wake up like nothing happened tomorrow, okay? Fuck, who am I kidding."

Suddenly, he was furious at John. "I can't forget that this happened, John!"

"If you're going to be mad, say it to my face!"

Sherlock stood abruptly and threw open the door. He snarled at John, "How can you just forget about this?!"

John met his gaze, though his confidence was still as muddled as the heap of blankets downstairs. "Because you hate sentiment. If that's all my feelings will ever be to you, than I'd rather salvage our friendship than wallow in self-pity."

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you honestly forgotten?"

"I am talking about the fact that I was _Anderson_ level in stupidity in thinking that you could ever be in love with me. And not only to you reject me, you throw it in my face by saying that 'We can wake up like nothing happened tomorrow.'"

"Hold on. That's not what's going on here at all. You're the one rejecting _me_. ...aren't you?"

"What am I rejecting you from?"

"You're going to make me say it?"

"Obviously because I don't have the faintest idea what the hell you're talking about." Sherlock looked incredibly frustrated.

John's shoulders went tense. He was silent, looking off sideways, back down the stairs. There was no way around it.

"I love you."

Sherlock froze and stared at John.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"That's why," said John. He turned to leave. He had done what he could.

Sherlock offered a croaked, almost silent, "I love you too."

John faltered mid-stride. Without moving, he asked, a hope that had been crumpled inside him inching away from the trash can. "What?"

'"You're going to make me say it?"' Sherlock repeated softly.

John pivoted around. "I didn't imagine...?" he said under his breath. He managed to nod his head once.

Sherlock stared at him. "John?" he asked, uncertainty in his voice.

"Say it. Please. One more time." He hated to beg but he hated the uncertainty even more.

"I-" he cleared his throat and stepped closer to John. "I love you," he said earnestly.

"Sherlock," John nearly laughed from relief.

Sherlock fidgeted. "Aren't you going to say anything?" he demanded.

"No," he smiled. "I'll leave the rest to your own deductions."

Sherlock's lips pushed out into a slight pout as he stared at John.

"Nothing?" John's surprise softened the question. He moved closer, the toes of their socked feet nearly touching. "I suppose you'll need more evidence-"

"I suppose," Sherlock murmured in agreement, stepping closer.

John's hands found their way to his shoulders. On tip toe, their noses were a breath from touching. "All the information is here," John confided. "You just need the right question."

"Kiss me?" he breathed, tipping his head slightly.

"Certainly," John's affirmation was cut short by a slight till of the head, an action that so simple, yet scrambled his insides with the new contact. It was fantastic

Kissing John Watson was much better in reality than it had been his imagination. Though it did make it rather hard for him to thi...

John deepened the kiss and all rational thought fled from Sherlock's head.

Thinking? Thinking was overrated anyway.

John had to remind himself to breath through his nose, he was so lost in Sherlock's scent, the feel of him, everything.

Finally breaking the kiss, Sherlock touched their foreheads together, breathing harshly, a smile on his face.

John pursed his lips, concentrating on saving the moment in his memory. He felt Sherlock's breath tickle his face. He opened his eyes to the best friend he would ever have.

"I might need some more evidence, John," Sherlock murmured, a smirk tugging at his kiss-bitten lips.

"I've never held back an investigation before," John answered. He gave up on being serious, letting the smile play out on his face. Extending an invitation, John parted his lips and entwined his fingers in Sherlock's hair.

He accepted, wrapping his arms around John and deepened the kiss.

Sherlock chuckled and leaned down, pressing their lips together once more.

John stepped forward, backing them both into the wall. His hands slid from Sherlock's hair to the side of his face.

Sherlock tightened his grip around John's waist, barely noticing the fact that he was pinned against the wall.

Oh god. His cheekbones. They felt as dashing as they looked.

Sherlock broke the kiss with a sigh, leaning his head back.

"John..." he murmured.

John nuzzled into his neck, his feet feeling much better when he was off his toes. At his normal height, it was the most comfortable to trail his nose along the line of Sherlock's collarbone.

Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes, sliding his fingers into John's soft blond hair.

John's lips ghosted around the skin at the base of Sherlock's neck, whispering fragments of words like 'mine' and 'brilliant'.

Sherlock's breaths came in sharp stutters as John's lips travelled down his neck.

A sudden spasm of his hand ruined it though.

"Damn it," he snarled, pushing away from John to grab his cramping, pained hand. 'Of all the times?' he thought angrily.

His attention split between Sherlock hand and his heartbreaking expression, John clasped his hands around both of Sherlock's. Physical therapy wasn't a specialty of his by any stretch of the imagination, but pressure applied in certain muscles of the hand should ease the pain slightly. He kissed each fingertip for good measure.

Sherlock's lips lifted slightly at the gesture. He looked down and sighed. "Hope I haven't ruined the moment," he murmured.

John rolled his eyes. "Compared to your usual antics, that was almost endearing."

"Good." He wrapped his arms around John's neck. "Because I've been waiting for this for over three years."

"Me too," John fiddled with Sherlock's shirt collar, his eyes never leaving his face. "And you're bloody worth it."

"As are you," he murmured before pulling John in for another kiss.

* * *

Curled against John's side, Sherlock stared at him with unwavering devotion, eagerly sweeping his eyes up and down the length of his lover (finally, yes, his lover. Not just his best friend but his _lover_), taking in the pure feeling of acceptance and joy that came from laying in John's bed.

John's eyes fluttered behind his eyelids. He was slowly reemerging from sleep to warm skin and Sherlock's arm draped across him. He smiled and nudged closer, content to lie this way with his love.

Sherlock tightened his grip on John, burying his face in his hair.

John half-sighed, half-yawned, looking up with his freshly opened, bleary eyes. All that was visible to him was an ear and a fraction of Sherlock's jaw. He closed his eyes again and wrapped his arm around to rest on the small of Sherlock's back. "Morning."

"Morning," Sherlock repeated softly, face still buried in John's hair. "Sleep well?"

"Hmm," John answered. "Best sleep in three years. Shall we make a habit of it?"

"Oh God yes."

John grinned. He wiggled until he was situated to see all of Sherlock's face. "We're in agreement, then." He kissed him softy.

Sherlock hummed, "Of course," and kissed him back.

Their lazy kisses gradually slowed. John rested his head back on the same pillow as Sherlock, both on their side, noses touching. He traced the marks on Sherlock's neck, the ones he had given him the night before, and occasionally trapped a wayward black curl between his fingers.

Sherlock basked under John's attentions, shifting to move closer to him.

"Sherlock," he'd never get tired of saying it. "I love you."

"I love you too, John," Sherlock murmured, intertwining their fingers together.

John placed a brief kiss on both of Sherlock's eyelids, then returned to their tight embrace. "I hope you weren't planning on doing anything this morning, because I'm much too comfortable to move." He hooked his heel around Sherlock's calf for emphasis.

"No plans," he replied, shifting to bury his face between John's neck and shoulder.

"Fantastic," John murmured. He played with the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck and let his eyes drift shut again.

Sherlock made a noise of agreement and curled closer to him.

John hummed a broken melody that he half-remembered from Sherlock's home violin concerts at odd hours of the night. The pattern of breathing was slowing to sleep for both of them.

Sherlock felt a soft kiss placed to the top of his head. He smiled sleepily and closed his eyes, succumbing to his body's need to rest.

Down in the living room, forgotten and likely to remain so for some time, Sherlock's phone pinged from Greg's constant texts. He wouldn't be receiving any detective work today.


End file.
